


Stage Fright: Epilogue

by Snowgrouse



Series: Stage Fright [2]
Category: Actor RPF, Doctor Who, Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Quickie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:53:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't do it. </p><p>David stares at himself in the dressing room mirror, white uniform half unbuttoned, and this time he's sure. He can't do it. He can't remember his lines. He's going to fall off that bloody golf cart again. He's going to make an absolute arse out of himself, on press night of all nights. He's going to let Catherine down, he's going to let everyone down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stage Fright: Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue to [Stage Fright](http://archiveofourown.org/works/432345). John returns the favour. Hurt/Comfort. Thanks to Versaphile and thisisgallifrey for betaing.

He can't do it. 

David stares at himself in the dressing room mirror, white uniform half unbuttoned, and this time he's sure. He can't do it. He can't remember his lines. He's going to fall off that bloody golf cart again. He's going to make an absolute arse out of himself, on press night of all nights. He's going to let Catherine down, he's going to let everyone down. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. He runs his hand through his hair and wonders if he could knot a rope out of the baby wipes on the table and make his escape through the window, when there's a knock on the door.

"Fifteen minutes".

David presses his forehead against the mirror and groans.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."

There's another knock.

"What?" David barks, and regrets it immediately. The last thing he wants now is to come across as a showbiz diva, and prepares to apologise profusely. Only it's not the stage manager, but John. He strolls in with confidence, wielding an open bottle of champagne. 

"Know how you feel, man. Fancy a drink?"

"Cyanide would be nice", David grumbles. He greets John with a hug and groans into his shoulder, just groans, from the bottom of his heart. At least John understands the ridiculous amount of stress he's under, having been there and back himself. John knows how it is, knows it's the night when the vultures descend, knows this could make or break a play. To say nothing of an actor. John's hands, wrapping around his back, are more reassuring than any words could be right now. David hugs him back, clinging, really not wanting to face the stage right now. He'd rather stay here.

"David?"

"Mmm?"

John pulls back, clearly tipsy on the champagne himself, and he has a glint in his eye David recognises all too well. 

"I think I know just the thing." John is practically licking his lips.

"Oh no. Oh, nonono." David takes a step back, holding his hand up. "John, this is not a good idea. In fact, it's bloody ridiculous. We don't have time."

John cheerily ignores him, slides to his knees and unzips David's trousers.

"'s okay. I owe you one."

Before David can think of a reply, John's already got his cock in his mouth, and it's too late for protests--hell, David can barely stay upright when John attacks him in earnest. He has to balance with his back against his dressing table, scrambling for purchase. He wills himself to stay soft just to spite John, but as if he wasn't feeling rubbish about his acting skills already, his body decides to fail him on this one as well. God, he must stop lying to himself like this. He's missed this. He grows hard inside the soft slick heat of John's mouth, harder as John looks up with slitted, smiling eyes, his gaze telling him to give in and to enjoy himself. David's head falls back with a groan and he admits it, he's lost. He who is always in control of himself, always knows how to modulate his behaviour, he who always keeps things neat and ordered. 

The worst thing about losing control is that it _always_ happens when John's around, and completely bypasses David's better judgement. It's something instinctual, something that goes beyond their friendship and affection and is all about perfect sexual chemistry, the right mix of pheromones and personalities. It's about clicking together as you fuck, perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle, and for one bright and shining moment nothing else matters. There are people you have a wonderful and satisfying love life with, and then there are people who waltz into your life without so much as a by your leave and _fuck you stupid_. And when you wake up, you realise they've pickpocketed your heart. John is one of those people. 

David tries biting his fist not to make noise but realises he's going to leave marks and ends up just whimpering through his nose. John looks up at him and _chuckles_ around his cock, and that really isn't helping. 

"Bastard."

John comes up for breath and shakes his head. "Porn star. Just watch."

John opens his mouth around David's cock, takes it in as deep as he can without touching, and _breathes_. Then he wraps his lips around it, loose and soft, barely touching, denying David the pleasure of friction. Oh fuck, it's this old dance again: the more nervous David gets, the more John will tease him until he has no choice but to _snap_. He moves his mouth up and down slowly, looking up at David, his leisurely pace a punishment for David's own impatience. Once, he kept David like this for the better part of an hour, just on the edge, teasing until David was a begging, sobbing wreck. And then he fucked him against the window overlooking Cardiff Bay, making sure the neighbours heard his every moan. The memory of that day is making David's knees buckle, and he bites his lower lip and hisses. 

"Please". 

There's a knock on the door. "Ten minutes."

John looks up at him, slowly stroking David's cock with a loose fist, his lips red and glistening with spit. "You were saying?"

"Fuck. Please."

"Yeah?" John taps the tip of his cock against his tongue, shameless from the drink. "D'ya want to come in my mouth?" 

_Jesus._ David is trembling, his cock slipping in John's hand as he staggers. He runs his hands through his hair, then through John's, pleading. He's so close.

"John--"

John doesn't answer, just dives down and _sucks_ , rocking his head just so, grabbing David's hips, cradling them, fucking his cock with his mouth, _taking_ him. And this, David thinks feverishly as he falls towards orgasm, is why John is more than an addiction. This is not just a distraction, it's not just soulless fucking. Both of them know it's deeper than that. The sex between them is a transformation, an unspoken pact to take the other person beyond their pain, to fuck it out of them and pull them through to the other side. And that's what John's doing right now, with his mouth and his hands and his heart, giving as he takes, all of it for David. As David's vision explodes, he's choking back tears, sobbing as John swallows him whole, and he's so grateful, so grateful. 

David is still panting against his dresser, heaving, as John wipes him down and tucks him back into his trousers, buttoning up his uniform. Again, John does not say anything. He just puts his arms around David and kisses him, gently, tasting of come and champagne and affection. 

Knock knock. "Five minutes."

David cups John's face with his hand, far calmer now. Steadier. Balanced by John. Anchored by John. 

"Thank you." He kisses John. "What would I do without you?" He means it from the bottom of his heart, and hopes John knows. 

John smiles and shakes his head. "Love you too. Break a leg."

Before David can answer, John's out of the door.


End file.
